


Yuck

by GalekhXigisi



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, I also didn't care to edit it, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, It's bad, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Soulmates, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Trans Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Trans Male Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Underage Drug Use, Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Smoking, no beta we die like a man, this was for me but yall can read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:47:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Virgil lives through prostitution and his soulmates eventually learn.





	Yuck

**Author's Note:**

> HEED ALL WARNINGS, THIS IS B A D. MEAN. YUCK. 
> 
> UNDERAGE, RAPE, NON-CON, DRUGS, ITS ALL MENTIONED AND SHIT. IT'S HELLA YUCK. PLEASE BE CAREFUL.

Dmien as only six when he felt the horrid pressure on his arm, burning terribly. Fingerprints imprint his skin, dark and contrasting with the patch of tan skin. His stomach churns with worry and disgust before he runs to his mother, whimpering and whining for her attention. 

 

“Mama,” he mumbles, pulling on her skirt. 

 

The woman turns, humming at her son. Wide, bright green eyes look back at his own brown and yellow-like ones. “Hold on, Love,” she whispers into the phone, “I’ll call you back.” She smiles, replying with an, “I love you, too,” before hanging up the phone. Within a moments’ notice, the woman is squated down, black skirt touching the floor as she presses her hands into her lap, balancing herself. Her skin is a tiny bit darker than Damiens’ own, contrasting with even the darkest patches of skin. The lighter patches were his surrogate fathers’ own, not that his mother minded in the least. His surrogate father, was, after all, just her soulmates brother. 

 

“What is it, Damien,” she asks softly, nose scrunching up as she smiles. 

 

He holds out his arm, whining. “I didn’t--” He pauses, a harsh sting overtaking his face as he brings a hand up. 

 

His mother gasps, moving to the fridge within an instant. She pulls out an icepack, carefulling pressing it to his cheek. Worry bites at her so clearly that it makes Damiens’ own features twist with a painful worry. “Damien, Dear,” she whispers, pressing the ice pack to his cheek, “It’s not your fault, okay?” She attempts to be nice about it, but he care feel the worry radiating off of her within an instant. She inspects his bruised cheek and the finger prints on his arm, worrying at her lip silently. “It’s alright, dear, I promise.” 

 

That was the first day Damien had any sort of connection to his soulmates. 

 

-

 

It’s completely by accident that they start writing in the colors they do. They come up with simple names for each other, ones that Damiens’ ma had come up with. The first three, at least. 

 

A bright blue color appeared on his skin, written in a messy scribble.  _ Hi, I’m Heart. I’ve written to you every day for two years now, soulmate. _

 

_ I’m Brain, _ came a reply in a darker blue. The font was formal and held together. 

 

A metalic red followed, looking as if had been written quickly, smudged on his right forearm.  _ Prince. _

 

Damien frowns. He wants a cool nickname, one that his Ma would approve of. He runs to her, yelping out her name. She turns, yelping his name in reply, kneeling. Luna smiles as she watches the two collide. 

 

“Damien, Damien, Damien,” She chirps back to the way he yelps her name. “What’s up?” 

 

“What’s a cool name for my soulmates?” It’s a bit slurred, the boy having knocked out two of his teeth only days ago when he was at the stoor and ran into a wall.

 

Soleil hums, watching her lover as she bounces the child on her hip, turning towards the woman. “What’re you doing for?” 

 

Luna pops her lips. “You know that one show that you watch? The one with that robot dude?” 

 

“Vega-dogs,” Damien questions with a raised brow.

 

Luna nods once more. “Yes, that one! Use the nickname of your favorite character!” 

 

“Deceit!” 

 

“Yes!” 

 

From then on out, the woman inspired him, as well as three of his four soulmates to pick names from the show.  _ Brain _ soon became  _ Logic, Heart _ instead  _ Morality, _ and  _ Prince _ cast as  _ Creativity. _

 

-

 

More bruises littered their skin time over time. By third grade, his teachers worried, constantly commenting on it with his mothers. The two were sad to clear up that it was his soulmates, not from them. Their soulmates gave similar reports and Damien had concluded after he had learned the other three had finally met in school, that they had another soulmate, because it simply couldn’t be him, nor either of the three, who all had amazing families. Logic lived with his mother and two fathers, Creativity with his dad, and Morality with his three aunts and two uncles after his mothers’ death when he was a child. He could never describe them, though, and he knew they weren’t exactly parental material, so it was never bad on his end. He loved drawing little hearts on his arms for them. 

 

When they were all in the middle of an end-of-the-day-thoughts session, there came purple ink writing out,  _ I’m Anxiety. Sorry about the bruises.  _

 

Damien had screamed about it to Soleil for an entire hour, taking up another half to Luna after his Mama got home from work. He was practically vibrating at seeing the all-too-formal print. The adults’ brows furrow in worry, but they don’t mention it, instead, letting Damien hold his excitement close to his heart. Not only does he have  _ three _ soulmates, but  _ four. _ They didn’t want to dare dwindle his amazing attitude. 

 

The women notice that Anxiety is the one to earn the bruises every time. Busted lips, black eyes, cuts that clearly weren’t caused by the child. The formal font, the way they barely write on their arms and washes it off just before the bruises come. When they aren’t washed off, the others notice the way they collect all the darker, harsh against his skin. 

 

-

 

They’re twelve when someone finally has the idea to ask a question that always seems to be at the back of their minds, as everyone does.

 

_ What do you all look like, _ Creativity writes out,  _ I’m Puerto Rican I’m tall. _

 

Logic is quick to write,  _ Caucasian, black hair, blue eyes like this blue. _

 

Morality is slow to write back.  _ I’m blonde. My Aunt Jenna says I’m mixed, though. Got a lot of freckles. _

 

_ I’m got vitiligo. _ Damien isn’t the least bit surprised when he feels the light blue and red pepper question marks on his skin.  _ My skin is dark and light. I’m mixed but it’s different. Patchy. _

 

_ I’m albino. _

 

The purple is faded, lighter than it was a month ago, the last time he had responded. Dark bruises cover all of their arms. The replies from Anxiety had become so far and few. They were rare and usually short as can be. Nothing more than a few words, really, but it was enough. They were… Calming, sometimes. It was tiny details that would get erased soon. 

 

_ Got eyes that change color, too. S’wild. Heterochromia. Dye my hair once a week.  _

 

_ Sounds like it takes a while, _ Morality comments. 

 

_ Meh. Gotta go. _

 

That was all they were going to get for the next while, they all knew so. The words disappear with soap, leaving scratches and red skin in its wake. 

 

They don’t realize it until years later just how bad it is. Their reports from Anxiety had been almost nothing. When he’s sixteen, the other reports he was in and out of the hospital. He was a child working to support his parents, something that he never wanted to imagine. 

 

-

 

_ Virgil _ is his name. He walks the streets with a swing in his hips and a cigarette on his lips. Smoke slips out of his mouth, huffed in a clients’ face. The other man smirks, offering the money then and there. The fourteen-year-old needed his medicine and he knew his parents weren’t going to help. 

 

He had worked so many odd jobs. Underage prostitution was far from the worst. He stips in his free time. There are enough sleazy joints open for him. His identity before the name was the only thing that mattered for the crowd he tended to. No one worried when he could get around with his mothers’ license and could forge her signature. He looked just like her when he dyed his hair and put in contacts, after all. Besides, she was at home, drunk and alone while her husband traveled. He was three times as bad as she was. 

 

The two weren’t soulmates. The didn’t dare get along.  _ Couldn’t. _ With his mother craving love with no soulmate and his father a bitter man after his soulmates’ death, he had become his own worst nightmare. 

 

His hands don’t waste time when they get to the shitty motel Virgil had rented for this. Beneath the sleazy lingerie, he gets ravished, bite marks and all litering his body. Yet, hours later, he’s watching the man leave, a new six hundred in his hands. He takes a drag of the joint he saved for times like this when things were shallow and he wasn’t sure if anything was actually worth it. He had been in the hospital only two months ago, still battling his health. He had a doctors’ appointment tomorrow, a silent beg to get off of his medication. All it does is piss him off. 

 

_ I love you guys, _ gets scribbled on his arm. It’s followed by another mess of colors and a  _ good night _ shortly after. 

 

He takes a drag, sunken eyes staring at the wall as he turns off the light. Virgil stands and takes in the disgusting sight of the motel room. 

 

“Just a few more jobs and I’m done for this week,” he reminds himself. 

 

He makes a mental note that there may be a few more with the upcoming need to get himself a new computer for his classes. 

 

-

 

Virgil was always sure to stay safe. Lube, condoms, any and all preventions from getting anything on him. He keeps a knife on his person almost all times. He has a gun hid in his room in case it comes down to it. No matter what happens, he’s  _ always _ prepared. His anxiety keeps him from not doing that. Pregnancy tests come weekly and his medication comes every three months as well as visits to one of his least favorite doctors’. 

 

_ What if life isn’t worth living? _ The writing is still formal, always had been. His mother expected that of him. 

 

Neon blue scrolls across his arm.  _ It’s always worth living! Imagine the day that we can finally live together! That we can finally love each other in peace and not have anyone say anything!  _

 

He can’t find it in himself to care much of the answer he received. He knew Morality was the only one awake. Logic would be up soon. They were all three hours behind him. He was honestly surprised the other was up so early. 

 

_ Hold old are you guys, _ comes the scroll of yellow. 

 

_ Fourteen. _

 

_ You’re fourteen?!! I’m actually sixteen. So are Lo and Cre. _

 

_ Fifteen, about to be sixteen. _

 

Morality was paired with two the same age as him, the wonderful trio having met so long ago. Virgil scratches off his first written message with soap. His mother was still passed out at home, but the habit had never left him. She was always angry when he came home with writing on his arms, or really any sort of ink on his body. It was easy to piss her off like that. 

 

Within the hotel room, he’s somewhat safe. 

 

_ You’re a baby, _ Deceit writes in his golden ink, an evil little smiley face following. It’s quick to get rinsed off, too, discarded by the hot water. 

 

-

 

Virgil is sixteen when he finally comes face to face with his soulmate. He doesn’t mean to do it, not in the least, but the other just seemed to be on the wrong side of town at the wrong time, traveling with two women. Curiosity was the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

 

A coat halfheartedly covers his body, not hiding the stalkings on his legs. This corner wasn’t a common one to find people of his…  _ expertise  _ on, but the customers came often and they were gentle, rich men that would pay more for praise than play. They stumbled out the bar, drunk as could be, sporting money. Virgil was always high out of his mind anyway, so he wouldn’t remember much of it anyway. Getting the munchies helped him keep his figure, after all, no matter how much he hated it. 

 

He hears a woman speaking, accent faded but recognizable all the same.  _ Liberian, _ Virgils’ mind supplies as he hears her speak. “Okay, Mister Lies. Reply to Morality and Creativity before they get antsy.” 

 

A second woman scoffs. “He goes by  _ Deceit, _ Love.” 

 

Virgil peeks around the corner, finding a boy standing with two women, taller than him. The women match Deceits’ description of his mothers. In the middle of them stands the boy with vitiligo skin, smiling as he writes in gold. Even in the dimly lit night, Virgil can see it. He pulls up his sleeve and tears away the full-armed glove. 

 

_ I’m with my moms atm. Kinda cold tho. _

 

Dark blue follows, but Virgil can’t see it through the tears blurring his vision. He doesn’t know  _ why. _ He wipes his eyes, quick to pull out his pen. 

 

_ FOund you. _

 

“Found you,” the boy repeats in question, looking at his mothers. “What the Hell is Anxiety going on about?”    
  


“Language,” the women both chided. 

 

“I’m an adult now, Mas.” 

 

Virgil puts the blunt out against his hand before stuffing it in his pocket. He steps out, a hand wiping at his face. “Deceit,” he calls softly. No ones’ out and the bar is far enough that they won’t be able to hear the clatter it gives off at all times.

 

The boy jerks his head up, finding the other swaying towards him. Virgil raises his arm, sporting the purple  _ Found you _ with a smile. 

 

“Found you,” he repeats aloud. “Honestly, I expected to find literally any of the others before I found you, of all people.” His tone is lilt and teasing, hips swaying as he walks forward. He doesn’t look like a hooker, he knows that. He was genuinely dressed up for once, though that was for a special client that called too late to cancel. 

 

“Anxiety,” Deceit concludes in time for Virgil to forward, finally planted in front of the other. 

 

He thrusts a hand forward, one not clad in black clothing. “Virgil.” 

 

The other looks starstruck, scanning him up and down. His mothers do the same, exact thing. 

 

“If you don’t shake my hand or at least say something, I’m going to have a panic attack,” he declares, his front faltering. 

 

He’s pulled into a hug before he can even realize what’s going on. 

 

“You’re gonna smell like weed, dude,” he comments idly. He’s silently thankful that he had shoved on a binder tonight. 

 

Deceit pulls back, tears in his eyes. “Damien.” 

 

“I’m Soleil,” the lighter of the women concludes, smiling, “And that’s my wife, Luna.” 

 

“Haven’t even been on a date yet and I’m already meeting your parents,” he teases the other. “That seems a bit rushed, don’t you think?” 

 

“Considering we barely talk, maybe.” 

 

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Virgil supplies, cheeks heating. The front falls instantly as he looks away. “My mom didn’t have a soulmate so she sort of forbid me from writing to my own.” 

 

“That’s horrible,” Luna comments, brows furrowed. 

 

He shrugs. “Worse has happened. I’m not dying or anything.” 

 

_ “Again.”  _

 

Soleils’ eyes bulge at Deceit-- no,  _ Damien’s _ comment. “Again,” she repeats. 

 

“I had blood clots when I was younger. I was in and out of the hospital for a while.” He shrugs at it as if it were nothing. 

 

His phone chimes with a text but he swipes it away. At worst, it was his mother complaining that he forgot to pay the utility bills. At best, it was his cousin saying that he finally convinced his uncle to move them out to where Virgil lived and adopt him. 

 

“What’s your number,” Damien asks. 

 

_ One down, three to go. _

 

-

 

Virgil is seventeen when he finally leaves. If he were mugged, he had enough to make him mugger a truly rich man. Despite that, he runs, though. As he had found, Damien had met the other three during college only a month ago, which was why Virgil was running. He graduated early, divorced himself from his parents. He ran like there was someone coming to kill him. 

 

After his mother pulled a knife on him, how could he not have? After being in the hospital because his mother attempted to slit his throat, how could he not have? After his father shot him with a gun while drunk,  _ how could he not have? _

 

His throat aches as he knocks on the door in front of him. He had barely talked to anyone. He knew he barely had. He didn’t respond to the questions the had all thrown at him. Hell, he was actually pretty sure his soulmates thought he was dead, but his phone was shattered and he wanted to be in state before he got a plan. 

 

The door opens to wide, brown eyes that stare back at him. Virgil knows he looks like a mess. His neck is bandaged and he can see the scratch that imitated what was mostly a scar on Virgil now. His voice was rougher now because of the incident, but he didn’t mind. 

 

Arms lock around his body as he cries. He chokes on sobs so painful that he wheezes. 

 

“It’s okay,” comes the gentle voice. 

 

-

 

“What’s been going on,” Patton asks softly as he sits down across from the two.

 

Virgil still clings to ROman, desperate for any touch that isn’t actively there to hurt him. He’s so touch starved that it makes him sick to his own stomach. He distracts himself with the question at hand. “You guys know how my parents were, like, shit, right? From what Dee told you guys?” 

 

The others nod along. Logan looks somewhat sick to his stomach, looking Virgil up and down with worry. 

 

Virgil knows he’s dressed in the same thing he wore with countless clients. After all, he didn’t have much more else. Maybe a t-shirt and pajama pants he’d stolen from a store or a clients’ house before. 

 

“So, I’m a sex worker.” 

 

“You’re seventeen,” Logan comments with a raised brow. 

 

“That was one of the points,” Virgil comments offhandedly, watching them blanch.  _ “It was part of the appeal,” _ he whimpers, disgusted with himself. “Those that didn’t know thought I was my mom, so it didn’t matter. I’ve done this shit since I was twelve. I got around on thieving. Someone called the police but because I look so much like my mom, we only had to say  _ she _ bought the motel room that night. And my mom got pissed, then my  _ dad _ got pissed--” 

 

It’s cut off by a wheeze. He forces down the anxiety attack. Romans’ hand rubbing gentle circles in his back grounds him enough that he thinks that maybe it’ll be okay for once. He pulls off his coat, the one that holds so many stains, some from bodily fluids and some not. He knows that beneath it lays a lingerie, the same one that he’d worn the night the police were called. 

 

“Where… where do you want me to put my coat? I don’t really…” 

 

“We don’t have to talk about this now, Virgil,” Damien supplies quietly. “Let’s get you in the shower and into some proper clothing first, okay? You can sleep in our bed tonight.” Before Virgil has the chance to argue with anything, the other chimes, “And it won’t be an issue if you take the bed, either, so don’t even attempt to say anything about it.” 

 

Virgil nods slowly. 

 

-

 

The seventeen-year-old keeps connected to his lovers one way or another. 

 

_ Lovers. _

 

THat was the same thing he called his clients. It brings pile to his mouth the second he reminds himself of it. He swallows it down, pressing his hip against Logans’ own. The two slot together perfectly. 

 

“I love you,” Patton sleepily mumbles as he presses a kiss to Virgils’ forehead. 

 

-

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Logan whimpers, his fingers threaded through Virgil’s own from where he sits beside the other. 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“You don’t have to…. Whore yourself out, for lack of any better term for it.” 

 

Virgil cries into Logans’ arms. He had no idea of any other way to repay someone. 

 

-

 

Virgil doesn’t have sex with any of his  _ boyfriends _ until he’s twenty-one and they’re on their honeymoon, far away from family. He knows they’ve had sex before, knows that they’ve done things together, but the entire  _ you can’t have sex until you’re married _ motto had become something he lived by after realizing his  _ “flaws.” _

 

THey’re gentle, something none of his clients could ever compare to. They don’t comment on the scars or press too hard after he begs them to stop underneath the blanket of the night. THey’re slow and kiss him with passion instead of pure lust or unbridled emotions that never made for healthy sex. They ask before they do, Patton especially, no matter what does or does not happen. THey focus on him, on what  _ he _ wants, not what they do. And when Virgil is too tuckered out after his seventh orgasm in the past hour, they don’t keep going at it with him, despite him being high and passed out. Instead, they cover him up and let him rest. 

 

He hated to admit that he cried when he first woke up, or the number of times he had cried because of how gentle they were or the aftercare that he had never had before. He preferred  _ this _ over everything else he had ever gone through. 

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't worth putting my name/tags on and I don't like this fic so take this shit


End file.
